Sal here, with a note: If you're looking for Freddie or a depiction of Freddie, or any of the other members of Queen, you won't find them here. As warned in the synopsis, this story will not make much sense unless you've read any of the story In the Year of the Cat; it's a kind of continuation, bridge, or add-on, to that book. So, start there if you are interested, and then come back to this. You have been warned. Thank you!

Father Thomas looked out over the congregation gradually filling the expansive sanctuary, and sighed. Every time he officiated services at Westminster Cathedral, it seemed to him, the flock seemed to thin a little more. True, he was the ripe old age of eighty, and his spectacle-reinforced eyes were not as sharp as they used to be, but he knew attendance from non-attendance. Even with all the unrest ensnaring London in these trying times, the country's Catholic faith was weak, at best.

His weak eyes wandered, as they often did, across the rows closest to him and his bench. A few families, a few people standing alone, the groups separated by an easy two feet, as strangers seemed loath to sit any closer to one another. Again, he sighed. Mass was set to begin in a few minutes; the sunlight in the stained glass windows was fading, leaving most of the illumination to the candles all around.

Father Thomas's eyes roved over, then came back, to a huddled woman in the third row, sitting well away from everyone else. Her head was down, hands clasped apparently in her lap, so her face was not visible at first. All he could see was the top of her head, upon which her hair was smoothed and pulled back, the collar of her conservative black top, and the tip of her nose. Why she caught his attention, he couldn't say. Something about her body language set something to stir in the back of his mind.

As the choir made magnificent use of the cathedral's acoustics, Father Thomas continued to rack his brain. There was something strangely familiar about that woman, and he hadn't even seen her face. Look up, my dear lady, he coaxed her in his mind. Look up, this has me flummoxed.

The woman seemed to receive the message. For a moment later, she lifted her head and looked to the side, dabbing quietly at her eyes. I know that profile! he exclaimed to himself. Then, indiscreetly, he squinted, peered harder. But from where?

She turned her head back toward the front, and her eyes met his. Much to Father Thomas's surprise, her pale face pulled into a smile of recognition for just a moment, when she stopped. All of a sudden she carefully shifted out of the pew, taking her time. In the seconds Father Thomas looked away to read his watch (ten minutes till Mass began), she had walked all the way to the confessional booth. With a single, pointed look at Father Thomas, she disappeared into the small stall and closed the door.

And suddenly, Father Thomas remembered. Funny, how forty years could pass, and thousands upon thousands of confessions could be heard, but certain ones stuck in your head, and stayed with you forever.

His mind rewound four decades, and suddenly he was thirty-nine, a still-learning vicar of Roman Catholicism. It all came back to him...

Confession One: In Nomine Patris

The girl just sat there tongue-tied a moment after Father Thomas entered the confessional booth. She seemed calm enough; if there was anything to be gleaned about her soul from the fuzzy curve of her profile visible through the screen, she was not in any uncontrollable pain; her face was dry, her lips did not tremble, she was cool-headed and steady-handed.

"Yes, my child?" he coaxed.

"Oh, um," she murmured a little nervously. "Hi. Uh... I wanted to, um, confess my sins?"

"Of course," Father Thomas nodded.

"Is there something I need to say first, or you, or-?" Father Thomas smiled at her clumsiness. She was clearly American, but her voice was sweet and meek all the same.

"Most people start by saying, 'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.'"

"Okay. Bless me Father, for I have sinned. Now do I tell you?"

"Not yet. Then, you say how long it's been since your last confession."

"Oh. Well, uh, I'm Baptist, I've never actually, um, done this before."

"Do you ask God to forgive your sins?"

"Oh, of course. All the time. But I- just feel like talking to someone about it, see, I don't really have anyone to talk to right now- talk to freely, that is. There's too great a risk it will get back to him."

"Him, who?"

There was a pause. "Mr. J."

"I see," Father Thomas said, thinking he actually did see. "So this is your first confession. Go ahead."

"Well, let's see... I used a very naughty word in a Scrabble game the other day," she whispered. "And- I committed fraud against the state of Nevada."

In spite of himself, Father Thomas began to ask, "How-?"

"I signed a marriage license with a name that is not my own."

Father Thomas didn't personally see that as too damning a crime, as what happens in Vegas does after all stay in Vegas. He nodded. "Anything else?"

She paused. "I, uh- well, there's a man in my life."

"Yes?"

"He's a friend of mine, and that's all I want him to be. But I- I feel more than just friendship for him."

"What do you feel?"

"I- want to- I want to know him, in the Biblical sense."

"Ah. You lust after him."

"No, no, I- well, yes, I guess that's true. It's causing me to feel jealous, and to think of -shall we say, naughty acts, and I don't want to. I still want to be his friend, but I can't stop thinking about him."

"Is it lust, or love?"

"I don't know. I'm all mixed up. I'm pretty sure it's not love though. But F- I mean, Mr. J, he's taking care of me, and being so nice- but he's doing things to my head. And I... worry about what that means."

I'm a priest, not a psychiatrist, he thought to himself, but still he asked, nonetheless intrigued, "What is he doing to your head?"

"I don't know, exactly," she sighed. "But it's weakening me. I know I should be a better person, but- he's not helping, yet I- can't cut him out of my life. It's not that easy. I couldn't even if I wished to. I depend on him."

"If it's weakness, or having weakness, you fear when it comes to this Mr. J," Father Thomas said after a minute, "then God will send you strength."

"I hope so." She sighed. "Well, I guess that's about the heap of it. What do I do now?"

"Say three Hail Marys," Father Thomas instructed. "And the Act of Contrition."

"How does that go?"

Father Thomas stifled a chuckle. This young ignorant girl was in such earnest. "Like this. Repeat after me: O my God..."

"O my God..."

"I am heartily sorry for having offended you..."

"I am heartily sorry for having offended you..."

Father Thomas took the girl through the whole prayer, then spoke the words of absolution. Her head bowed, he made the sign of the cross over her shadow then said, "Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

"And his mercy endures forever," she replied.

"I thought you said you weren't Catholic," Father Thomas said, confused.

"Most of my family is," she whispered. "I'm half-Italian, but my dad was raised Baptist, so Baptist my mother became. But I know a little of the liturgy, I've just never gone to confession before."

Father Thomas nodded. "Go forth, my child," he said. "Your sins are forgiven."

"Thank you." And out of the confessional booth she walked.

Suddenly she turned and rushed back, her shoes clacking from all four corners of the room. "By the way, Father, if you wouldn't mind praying for me tonight, I'd truly appreciate it," she whispered.

"What shall I pray for? Strength?" Father Thomas asked.

"Strength... and a miracle."

"Miracle?"

"He'll know," the girl said cryptically, her voice solemn. "He'll know."

With that, she rushed out the door, off to fulfill some other adventure. Father Thomas made a mental note to himself: Tonight, pray for the flighty American girl.

Someone else was coming toward the booth. Clearing his throat, Father Thomas adjusted his collar and sat back down.

Confession Two: Et Filii

Usually it took weeks before a person came back for confession. But when the door shut quietly on the confessional booth that following Wednesday, Father Thomas was surprised to see that same shadow of a profile come into view.

The sound of her voice confirmed his suspicions: "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned; it's been three days since my last confession, give or take an hour."

She paused. "Hey, Father Thomas, it's me, the clumsy American."

"I know," he said before he could stop himself.

"Listen. I've really done it this time."

"What did you do?"

"Do you remember what I said about Mr. J?"

"My child, once your sins are forgiven, they are forgotten in the sight of God-"

"I appreciate that, Father, but do YOU remember?"

"Well- yes." Father Thomas noted a remarkable change in her voice from a few days ago. Where before she had sounded girlish, rather innocent, there was something older about her now, and brisk. What she said next told him all he needed to know.

"I was not strong."

"What-"

"I slept with a man who was not my husband."

"Mr. J?"

"Yes." Her voice trembled a moment, then stilled as she continued, "And now I- I don't know what I should do. I need your help- your advice."

"This is a confessional booth. I am, uh, not sure I can offer my input-"

"Then offer what you think would be Jesus's input, I have nowhere to turn here, I have to- I must speak."

Father Thomas sighed to himself, and nodded. "Very well. Go on. I will try to help you."

"Thank you." She took a deep breath. "It's like this. I love the man I slept with, I gave him myself because it was all I had to give to him. He is a very giving person, and I believe that in his way he loves me as well. But I- I'm afraid."

"Why are you afraid?"

"Mr. J- has a history of lovers, that he amasses and stacks like trophies on a shelf, links in a chain, and now I am one of those links. He says he loves me, but there are two other people who hear those same words from him as well. And I cannot honestly believe he will always love me, though he may love me today.

"And this frightens me," she went on, "Because very soon, I must choose."

"Choose?"

"I have one chance to return to a life without Mr. J, but a life in which I have a future as an individual. I love my prince, my Mr. J, and I would follow him to the ends of the Earth if he loved me half as much as I love him. But I have been warned- that he will very soon stop loving me, that I am nothing more than a space filler on that same shelf. If I stay with him, I very well may be resigning myself to be an eventual obligation. And I could not bear life if he had to force himself to go through the motions with me while our relationship fizzled."

"So, you need help choosing between pursuing a successful, healthy future, or maintaining as this man's mistress?"

The girl paused. "It sounds simple, when you put it that way," she admitted. "But I love him. And I want to believe in him. He swears he will never leave me, and made me swear that I never would leave him. But there's so much evidence against him. Fred- uh, Mr. J never belonged to anyone, he never wanted to. I know I don't belong here, in this world- but I want to belong to him. If he would ask me for mine and offer me his own, I would say yes. And I would never regret such a choice... but would he ever ask? Would he seriously consider going that distance? All the hoops he jumped through for me... would he take that plunge?"

Father Thomas listened as closely as he could to her impassioned, worried rambling, then he nodded. "When must you make this choice?"

"Tomorrow. Noon." She pleaded, "Please, Father, pray for me again. Pray that I make the right choice. I'll be praying. On my knees, I'll be praying. This is a choice I've been dreading for days, and now I must make it. I have to get it right, because it's a choice I'll never have again."

"Peace, my child," Father Thomas cooed. "What is to happen, will happen. It is in His hands."

"I suppose," she sighed. "But I-"

"Do what you think God would have you do," he said. "I shall pray for you. God is watching, and there is a plan. Do you believe that?"

"With all my heart."

"Have you any other sins to confess?" But as they proceeded with the confession, Father Thomas felt himself grow more worried than usual for this girl. She was indeed so young, and for her to be in a predicament such as this, though a predicament he did not fully understand, made his heart ache for her. He did not fail to pray for her that evening, or the next morning.

Father Thomas never encountered the girl again after that, and he could only assume she had made her choice, and gone with either her lover, or her life. Though he was ashamed to acknowledge this, Father Thomas honestly could not decide for even himself what the best way happened to be. But it was in God's hands.

And the years marched on and on, until forty-one of them slid away, and that summer evening, the past came to visit on Father Thomas...

Confession Three: Et Spiritus Sancti

Father Thomas picked his eighty year old body up off the bench and shuffled to the confessional booth, ushering out the vicar already sitting comfortably, prepared to hear the woman purge her soul. Mass would begin a few minutes, but this was a confession he couldn't afford to miss. It had been far too long.

"Bless me, Father," she whispered after a minute. "For I have sinned."

"When was your last confession, my child?" Father Thomas asked.

She kind of chuckled. "Forty-one years ago," the woman said. "Remember?"

The woman had one of those voices that didn't age; she sounded exactly the way she did in 1977. "I mean, it was a long time ago, I don't really expect you to-"

"I remember," Father Thomas said. "Mr. J, wasn't that it?"

Her head lowered. "Yes, that was it."

"Forty-one years. And you're still a Baptist."

"I am."

"Is that what you've come to confess?"

"Oh, no, I-" she chuckled again, but it was a mirthless laugh. "I've come to make the biggest confession. I have forty-one years to account for, after all."

"You don't sound a day over thirty," Father Thomas murmured.

"That's very sweet."

"If you don't mind me asking, and I really am not supposed to, but I'm eighty years old, what can they do to me at this point- did you choose?"

There was a hesitation behind the screen. "I chose."

Father Thomas wanted to push, but he didn't. The woman continued, answering the question with a sigh, "I chose- and I chose poorly."

"What do you mean?"

"Once more, I was not... strong."

Neither the woman nor Father Thomas spoke for a moment or two.

"Here ends my confession- forty years in two seconds," she said. "I'm in a bit of a hurry, I'm seeing some old friends of mine in half an hour, and I don't want them to wait."

Mass wasn't going to be delayed for him, either. Father Thomas continued with the confession, then gave the benediction, "Give thanks to the Lord for He is good."

"And His mercy endures forever." She sighed, opened the booth, but then she stopped. "Father, may I please shake your hand?"

"Why, my child?"

"Because I need it. Please."

Secretly, Father Thomas thought this a wonderful idea. He was indeed curious whether this young-voiced woman, who had to be in her sixties now, would look as youthful as she sounded. So, very quietly, he agreed. The woman eased herself off the chair and waited for him.

The old vicar himself exited, and came close to the lady he found standing outside the booth. He blinked and squinted as he put his hand out. The woman, too, drew closer, and took his hand. At last she moved into his line of clear vision, allowing him to pick out her features clearly.

She wasn't sixty. She wasn't fifty. She wasn't even anywhere near thirty. Father Thomas was shaking the small hand of a wispy, wide-eyed girl who looked like she was in her late teens or early twenties, with soft, honey-colored hair and a sad, pale expression. And then he looked at her middle, and saw the most perplexing thing of all. He couldn't believe his eyes.

The girl followed his gaze. She shrugged, and for no reason, Father Thomas asked, even though he knew it was impossible, "...Mr. J?"

Her lips began to tremble, her face to flush. The girl shrugged again, trying to keep her shoulders square. "Well, you know what they say: God works in mysterious ways."

Father Thomas almost responded to that, almost asked her how she could look so young after so long- and whatever became of Mr. J, if that was the choice she had made. Or was it? He was terribly confused. Senility must be setting in, he grumbled inwardly. I'm imagining things. Splendid. I'm getting too old for this.

But instead of asking questions, Father Thomas refrained, and did what he did best: he made the sign of the cross and said, with kindness in his eyes, "The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace. Amen."

"Thank you, Father Thomas, thank you for listening," she whispered, then patted her swollen stomach. "We appreciate it."

The woman -girl, really, she was just a girl- moved back toward the pew to collect her things. Father Thomas thought he saw a ring on her left hand, but he couldn't be sure of that. Married or not, that was still quite young to be pregnant- and she was very pregnant, about seven to eight months.

Mass would begin in very little time, as soon as he walked out and donned his proper robes in order to process back down the front and begin the introductory rites. But right this moment, Father Thomas was watching her go, strangely enchanted, following her with his eyes. He didn't know the whole story, nor would he ever. In fact, he would never see this girl, this apparition, ever again.

The girl closed the door to the sanctuary and was gone. Father Thomas shook his head. That had to be some kind of mirage. I'm going senile, that's all.

All the same, one more time, Father Thomas thought of her words, before turning to walk out and enter the church properly in the Catholic custom to start Mass, incense in hand, altar boys in tow.

God works in mysterious ways.

And only a fool, a great fool, would dare to argue with that, Father Thomas decided.

Because deep down, Father Thomas knew, somehow, some way, something spiritual had just taken place.

If that which I just saw was real, she is either blessed beyond words, or cursed with a thousand curses. Either way, poor creature. Fare you well, little waif, and may God bless you- bless both of you. You've a hard journey ahead.